


daisies in terracotta pots

by bluejayblueskies



Series: TMA Fantasy Week [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (but in like... the softest way possible), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fluff, Ghosts, Haunting, M/M, Spirits, Tea as a love language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 05:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30084321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejayblueskies/pseuds/bluejayblueskies
Summary: Jon doesn’t discover that his house is haunted because things are put out of place or broken. He discovers that’s it haunted because things arefixed..In which Martin is a ghost, Jon owns a cottage, and tea is shared.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: TMA Fantasy Week [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2208423
Comments: 5
Kudos: 119





	daisies in terracotta pots

**Author's Note:**

> written for tma fantasy week for prompt 4: spirit, summoning
> 
> cw for mild discussions of death (in a ghostly capacity)

Jon doesn’t discover that his house is haunted because things are put out of place or broken. He discovers that’s it haunted because things are _fixed._

It’s little things at first—a mug that Jon swore used to be chipped found whole in his cabinet, or the dusty cobwebs clustered in the corners swept away before Jon could get around to cleaning them up himself. Noticeable, sure, but insignificant enough that Jon could attribute it to poor memory.

The small terracotta flowerpot sitting on his table, unblemished and filled with daisies and baby’s breath despite having been in a thousand little shards on the floor the day before, finally gives him pause.

He notices more things after that—the way dust never collects on his windowsills and the way his washing powder never seems to run out and the way his cottage always smells of lavender and lilac. It’s not _bad,_ all things considered—just strange. It feels like there’s another person living with him, and Jon keeps expecting to walk into the sitting room to see somebody sat on the couch, relaxed and smiling like they’ve always been there.

In the end, Jon supposes, that’s almost exactly what happens. He’d found some books on witchcraft and spiritualism in the village library and had spent the previous day adorning his cottage with bags of herbs and flowers and drawing delicate symbols on the doors and windows with charcoal and chalk. He’d felt a bit foolish doing so, but his curiosity had won out over his embarrassment, and the sun had long since set by the time he’d finished the last of his preparations.

The books didn’t say how long it would take for the summoning spell to take effect. So, with exhaustion weighing his eyelids down, Jon retired to bed and took comfort in the knowledge that even if it did work, the spirit he was attempting to reveal wouldn’t harm him in his sleep.

Probably.

He shouldn’t be surprised, then, when he shuffles into his kitchen the next morning with sleep still clustered in the corners of his eyes to see a man sitting atop his kitchen table. The yelp of surprise that escapes him is quite undignified, and he stumbles back a few steps, his back knocking against the doorframe and his arm brushing against a small burlap sachet of herbs hanging there. It’s cool against his skin.

“Sorry!” the man says, sounding a bit panicked. Jon only has a moment to register how _normal_ his voice sounds before the man continues, “I- I didn’t mean to startle you. Old… old habits die hard, I guess. I’m used to you not being able to see me.”

Jon’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he finally says, “Right.”

The man stands—though _stands_ might be a generous word for it, considering he seems to simply transition from sitting to standing with nothing in between—and hesitates a moment before extending a hand toward Jon. “It’s, er. It’s nice to meet you officially. I’m Martin.”

“Right,” Jon says again, his eyes fixed on Martin’s hand. It seems opaque enough, and after a long moment, Jon reaches out hesitantly and takes Martin’s hand. It’s not nearly as cold as he was expecting, but it has a curious lightness to it when Jon grips it, like it’s hollowed out on the inside. “I’m Jonathan- er, Jon. Sims.”

Martin laughs, a bit awkwardly, and lets go of his hand. “I know. Kind of hard _not_ to, when I’ve been, er, haunting your house.”

Hearing it out loud—the absurdity of it all—draws a small laugh from Jon as well, clipped and startled. “I wouldn’t necessarily call it _haunting._ It’s not like you’ve been- been dashing my plates upon the floor or throwing cutlery at my head.”

Martin looks horrified at the thought. “Did you expect me to?”

“I don’t know!” Jon says, making an aborted gesture with his hands. “It’s not like I’ve ever met a ghost before. I’m a bit new to this.”

“Right, yeah, fair point.”

There’s a moment of silence between them, and Jon realizes that it’s been so very long since someone’s been in his home. He thinks it should be strange, to see another person standing in his kitchen, taking up space that’s been left empty for so long. But when Jon looks over Martin’s shoulder to see two steaming mugs sat atop the counter, it feels so _familiar._ Not strange in the slightest.

“How do you do it?” Jon asks as they’re sitting at the table, steam curling from the mugs in wispy tendrils. 

“Do what?” Martin says, taking a small sip of his tea—which Jon _really_ doesn’t understand. Can ghosts even _drink_ things? But that’s a question for later.

“Fix things. Things that are broken beyond repair, that is. I understand the cleaning—I could do that myself, to be honest—but how can you mend something that can’t be mended?”

Martin hesitates, just a moment, before reaching forward to pluck one of the daisies from the pot on the table. Before Jon can ask what he’s doing, Martin crushes it within his palm, curling his fingers around the bud and stem and petals until Jon’s sure it’s been mangled and ruined.

Jon opens his mouth to ask what the _hell_ Martin’s doing, but before he can, Martin says, “It’s like a spool of thread. You can unwind it, pulling out more and more of the thread, or you can wrap the thread back around the spool until it’s returned to where it started.” He opens his hand to reveal the flower; it’s completely unharmed, delicate and beautiful in the palm of Martin’s hand. “Time is funny here, wherever I’m stuck. I think that’s _why_ I’m stuck. I’ve been stuck for a while—it’s hard to keep track, but maybe a few hundred years? At some point, I figured out that I could kind of… rewind time? Only for really small things, like the flower.” Martin tilts his hand slightly so the flower flutters back onto the table, and for a moment, his expression is on the sad side of wistful. “It feels nice, being able to fix things for people. They usually don’t notice, of course. Until, er. Until you, I suppose.”

Jon studies Martin—the slight translucence to his skin, the ice-white streaks in his copper curls, the way he fades slightly into the background at times like he’s not quite here—and, after a moment, reaches forward to pick up the daisy. He rubs a waxy petal between his fingertips and says, “Well. Thank you. It’s… it’s been nice.”

Martin laughs. “What, to have someone to fix your broken dishes?”

“To have some company,” Jon says softly.

“Oh,” Martin says, just as softly. After a moment, he continues, “Do- do you mind that I’m, er… dead?”

Jon fixes him with a dry look. “Do you mind that I’m alive?”

Martin sputters. “What? No, of course not.”

“There you have it, then.”

Jon takes a small sip of his tea to hide his smile as Martin’s mouth opens and closes, apparently at a loss for words. It’s perfectly sweet upon his tongue, enough milk and sugar to cut through the bitterness.

Just the way he likes it.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos make my day! if you liked what you read, let me know 💛
> 
> find me on tumblr [@bluejayblueskies](https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/)


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